


Road Trip

by pdorkaa



Series: readers [5]
Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Because serial killer, F/M, Help, Hitchhiking, I have never been to the usa, Minor Violence, Road Trips, Shameless liberation of actual lines from the series, Sorry Not Sorry, Why am i attracted to serial killer dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8609917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pdorkaa/pseuds/pdorkaa
Summary: Between the sun slowly cooking you inside your skin, walking miles and miles into the next town and the scruffy dude in an old muscle car, there wasn't a doubt which one was the best pick. Even if said scruffy dude was a bit creepy. What could go wrong, right?     Is not related to any of the other works in this series.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this started out with "help no Sylar roadtrip hitchhiking no", so, uh, i have never been to the usa, please forgive any errors on that front, and i've also never been hitchhiking with serial killers. i do love hitchhiking, tho.  
> i'm sorry, but the reader here is not as uncharacteristic as i'd like, and if you've read 'Still Deadly', you might notice similarities - i can't help that i'm a cynical piece of shit and it seeps through.

That was the thing about the outback western towns of the American desert; during the lazy summer days that dragged the dust and dirt along the roads, there was absolutely nothing to save you. And the sun was beating down on your head with unusual force. Awesome. 

You were standing to the side of the interstate, holding one hand out, holding your hair back with another, looking out into the desert through dirty sunglasses. You had a small backpack slung over one shoulder, but the water that once was in your bottle has long dried up - other than that and a few dollars, you only had half a stale beer and the shorts and tank top you were dressed in. And the sunglasses, of course.

At least half an hour passed since you ran out of water, and at least ten cars zoomed past you since. It's not like you had any shorter pants to be out here in!

A battered, old muscle car slowed down, that all-american kind of car where there's the constant low, satisfying rumble of the engine, there's always classic rock thrumming from the radio and stale fries on the passenger's seat.

Hell, you figured, as good as any, and with a shrug, you smoothed your hair back, and stepped closer to the now standing car.

"Hi" you poked your head in. No stale fries.

"Hi" the driver, a young man with impressive eyebrows and a mop of shiny dark hair greeted you, with a delighted elongation of the 'i' sound. Not creepy. "Where are you going?" He eyed you from under questioning eyebrows.

"East" you shrugged again, because really, even you didn't know yet. "May I hop in, huh?" But you already had your hand on the door handle. The man just turned his head back towards the road. You took that as a yes, so you sat in the car and swung your backpack to the front.

"Hey, you want a stale beer or twenty-five dollars for the ride?"

"Let's just say I'm in a good mood today" he said, almost sighing, but not quite - still, his voice held a breathy, exasperated quality.

"Your gas" you drew up one shoulder. Really, the shrugging just had to stop, and soon. "No blowjobs, though."

This time, he did let a small sigh slip. There was a twitch to his upper lip, though. And you definitely didn't miss the amusement in his eyes. But all he said was:

"If you get more annoying, I'll have to kill you."

"Cool. I'm hitchhiking, it's not like I have much of a choice, creepy serial killer dude."

You propped your feet up on the dashboard. A few minutes passed in silence. Maybe it was a bit tense, but hey, it was summer, the sun was shining, it was America, and there actually was old classic rock on the radio. A road trip, then.

"Don't do that" he drew his eyebrows together. For a psycho, his face was weirdly expressive.

"Why, you'll kill me?" You slid lower in the seat, peeking up at him over your sunglasses.

"Why would I kill you?" He asked, his voice full of spite and disgust, even a little incredulity. "You don't have anything I want."

"Hey, what's with the condescendig manner, man? 'Sides, you just said you'll have to" you pointed out. You could see him tighten his grip on the steering wheel, but he didn't say anything, just gritted his teeth.

"I'm not a serial killer" he said finally.

"Sure you ain't"  you grinned. "You seemed pretty specific on the 'anything I want' front. Am I not blonde enough?" You feigned hurt.

"Okay, technically I'm a serial killer." He snapped, and started drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

"Cool" you said, still grinning, and got comfortable in the seat for a long nap. "It's the sideburns, y'know"  you added as an afterthought. 

He lifted his eyebrow and gave you a sidelong look.

"That's what gave you away. And the 'I'll have to kill you' part, but mostly the sideburns."

He tipped his head in your direction. "I'm Gabriel" he said.

You grinned and introduced yourself. "What kinda lame serial killer name is that, by the way?"

"A real one?" Oh, my, he sounded hurt!

"Y'know, for a serial killer, you're a bit childish." 

"Stop saying that!"

"Whatevs, Gabe" you slid your sunglasses back up and tilted your head back. Your eyes slid shut, and you fell asleep with the rays of sun shining across the desert in them.

 

 

"What time is it?" You asked, once you managed to peel one eye open.

"Eight."

The sun was indeed hanging low over the horizon, melting everything in warm honey light. 

"Shit, man, why didn't you wake me?"

"You seemed so... Peaceful."

"Has anyone ever told you - no offense there, mate - that the way you talk is hella creepy?"

"A few" he smiled, his eyes cold and piercing. For someone with so warm brown eyes, that was quite a look he was sporting.

"Nah, I don't think I've aqcuired what 'you want'"  you made air quotation marks with your fingers, "in the last four hours. I mean, you'll not kill me, right?"

"Probably" he drew out the last syllabyle again. He flashed you a look, but it was too fast to completely decipher. It was entirely predatory, though.

"Where are we, anyways?" You carefully tried to sit up and removed your feet from the dashboard. They were sore as hell.

"East" he grinned, and indicated the outlines of a city up front. "There's a bus station."

"Thanks, Gabe" you grinned, patting him on the shoulder. "But it's sad we'll have to leave each other's company" you flashed him a teethy grin. Hey, the guy was attractive! And, well, a little bad boy allure is always exciting. And, if by 'bad boy' you currently meant 'possibly dangerous serial killer', well, that was exciting too.

"Yeah..." he mused quietly.

Classic rock was still humming, but it was more of a background sound than before.

"Aw, you turned down the volume because I was sleeping?" You smiled at him again. 

"I turned it down because Bruce Springsteen irritates me" he snarled. Whatever, man.

About a mile out from the city - if you could call that a city and not a dustbin -, he stopped the car and got out.

You did as well, because when the serial killer dude leaves you in his car, things are bound to go south.

He got around the car, and grabbed you, but before you could say a disapproving word or two, he pushed you against that old, battered, all-american car, and kissed you breathless.

It was amazing, it was thrilling, and it was creepy as fuck. But the rise of his chest under your palms as he drew in a long breath, the feel of the stubble against your cheeks, the sliding tongue around yours, his warm palms on your nape and waist - it was all perfect. Until it wasn't, and the last thing you've heard was something with the word 'Sylar' in it as he slammed you against his car, promptly sat back in and drove off.

At least he waited till you slid down the side of his car before hitting the gas. The dude was nothing if not chivalrous.

 

 

And when you woke up a couple more hours later, with a splitting headache and a serious bulge on your skull, you were strongly compelled to rethink the whole 'bad boy allure' thing.


End file.
